I don’t know which tedious tank of raw human mind-waste it was that dumped all your hippy-aspirational turds on my blog and nor do I care but let it be said: fuck off.
So, don’t Quit Sugar. Maybe Quit bullshit instead.
And this is not to say “give up! Accept the destiny that the unequal systems of wealth have written!”. Nor is it a moral licence to strap one’s snout to a feed bad of ganja—although, let it be said, there is as much useful life in the vacant eyes of stoners as can be found in the hearts of intellectual property solicitors. It is to say, however, that a little suspicion of the idea of self-improvement as noble or natural is healthy.
I just wanted to bash out these thoughts about the horror of Christmas so that, at the very least, you knew that there is an unnamed community of Bah Humbugs who can trace the approximate shape of your pain.
TweetOh, pilule my reeking tit. Here we go again. Honourable Activists are saving their weekend virtue to screw a conference peopled by Intolerant Scum. The World Congress of Families is in town. And they’ve brought their bag of sick. The…
In other words, why remember Gallipoli as significant but retain no mental room for Slaughterhouse Creek?